‘I hope I’m not being shallow,’ said Jo, ‘but can you really see Malin Sigurdsson going for a bloke like that?’
Stratton cut in. ‘If there’s one thing this job has taught me, it’s not to make assumptions about women.’
Jo guessed from his smile that it was supposed to be a joke. ‘She accused him of sexual harassment. He lost his job. In my experience, women don’t run to shag their sex pests.’
‘He said the complaint was dropped,’ said Stratton.
‘We’ll check with Frampton-Keys,’ said Carrick. ‘I’m with Jo on this, sir. Even if she dropped the accusation, I’m not sure how it squares with voluntarily spending the night at his house.’
Maybe, thought Jo, we’re not looking at a square.
* * *
They took the prints, and Heidi gave the files a cursory scan before sending them to the lab for a confirmation.
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent sure they’re not a match for Malin’s room,’ she said.
Stratton looked aggrieved. ‘I’m not sure we can hold him.’
‘Agreed,’ said Carrick, though Jo saw it pained him to admit it. ‘We checked the evidence manifest from Malin’s room, and it included a toothbrush. Which makes it more likely that the one at Myers’ house was indeed a spare, taken there voluntarily.’
‘We’ve got him on obstruction, though.’
‘Pretty sure his lawyer could argue that was simply panic,’ said Carrick, ‘and he’s not an ongoing material threat.’
‘Are we finished at his house?’ asked the DCI.
‘Almost,’ said Carrick. ‘There’s nothing obvious yet. Certainly no blood.’
‘If he killed her at the college, there wouldn’t be,’ said Jo. ‘He looks strong enough to carry her.’ She knew that didn’t answer the access problem, though.
‘Okay, I want every nook and cranny looked into,’ said Stratton. ‘Find Myers a hotel. Get him what he needs from his house. And advise he doesn’t go on any sudden holidays.’
Carrick did as asked, signing Myers’ belongings back to him. On seeing Myers’ unbelievably smug face as he pocketed his things, Jo couldn’t help herself.
‘Not sure how Mr Cranleigh is going to react when he hears about you and his daughter.’
Myers coloured. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got against me, Detective. Did you fail your Oxford entrance exam?’
‘I never fancied the place,’ said Jo. ‘Something about all those one-on-one tutorials made me feel uneasy. Maybe my gut instinct was right.’
She left him in reception.
Back in the CID room, Heidi had shouldered her bag, and switched off her computer. ‘That’s me done.’
‘You should go home too, Jo,’ said Carrick. ‘Jack’s finishing up at the college.’
‘Anything new?’
He shook his head. ‘Oh, apparently Hana Sigurdsson is landing in the morning.’
‘You want me here to liaise?’
Carrick shot a glance towards Stratton’s closed door. ‘Better not, for now,’ he said, and Jo got it. There were times to push the DCI, and times to give. This was the latter.
* * *
Her car stank of the Korean food, which would have cooled to the point of inedibility. She opened the window, despite the cold outside, and let the wintry wind blast the smell away.
Lucas’s flat was in the Northcote area of Abingdon, a quarter-hour from the station. It wasn’t much – a two-bed on the upper floor of a small nineties block – but it was well kept, with Lucas himself taking care of the communal gardens on behalf of the residents. Jo parked up beside his beat-up Land Rover. It was the only car not covered in a fine sheen of frost, and touching the bonnet there was still a hint of warmth. He must have nipped out. She dropped the takeaway into the outdoor bin, and as she approached the front door, the security light blinked on.
She took the stairs, and let herself into the dark apartment. Turning on the light, she saw his work boots by the door and his coat hanging on the peg. Jo made her way through to the open-plan kitchen-lounge. The bedroom door was closed. She opened the fridge, but it was scarce pickings. A pineapple, several condiments, some milk and cheese. Half a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet. So she settled for an impromptu midnight feast of pineapple chunks and a glass of cold wine while sitting at the small dining table. When she’d first learned Lucas didn’t indulge in alcohol, she’d been reticent to drink at his flat, but he’d insisted it was okay. She knew already she’d have trouble sleeping without it tonight. There was a torn brown envelope on the floor by the table leg. HMRC. Probably another tax return reminder. Though he worked for the college, he was a freelance contractor.
‘Hey, stranger,’ said a voice.
Jo almost jumped out of her skin, dropping the piece of paper.
Lucas stood in the doorway of the bedroom, one arm resting on the frame, his blond surfer’s hair tousled, squinting a little into the light. He wore just a pair of shorts, his muscular torso on display, and padded towards her on bare feet.
‘You scared the shit out of me,’ said Jo.
He folded his arms around her, and kissed the underside of her neck. ‘Sorry. I thought you were a burglar.’
His stubble brushed her cheek, and though there was still a hint of the soap he used, his hair carried the scent of burned wood.
‘You smell funny,’ she said.
He leant past her and stabbed at a piece of pineapple, popping it in her mouth.
‘Bonfire,’ he said. ‘You want me to shower?’
‘We’ll have to wash the sheets,’ she said.
‘Guess so.’ He went to the fridge and took out a carton of milk. Tipping it back, he took several gulps. ‘Busy day, huh?’
‘Complicated,’ she answered.
He replaced the milk. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Not much to talk about at the moment. You go out somewhere?’
‘Huh?’
‘Car’s warm,’ she said.
‘Just the shops, Sherlock,’ he said.
He took himself off to the bathroom. She heard the shower start up.
In the first weeks of their relationship, her work was all he’d wanted to ask about, but he’d cottoned on quickly that Jo would rather talk about anything else and now he was much better at gauging her mood. She found his own work much more fascinating. Gardening wasn’t a topic she’d ever thought about much before, but Lucas had been working across the colleges for around eight years, and his tales of collegiate politics, student high jinks, and academic malfeasance were as rich as any case she’d worked on. It helped that he was a naturally gifted mimic. He had an eye for humour, an open disposition, and, compared with most people Jo came across, a sometimes charming innocence. She almost didn’t want to share the things she came across day to day – the banality of deaths, the lies and desperation, the lives shattered and inconsequential in the fringes of society – for fear it would drain some of that positivity from him.
Of his own history, she knew little. He’d grown up in Somerset, and the accent remained. His parents, who had separated when he was seven, were